A Thousand Devils (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 2)

by Frank Goldammer

Heller touched Oldenbusch’s arm, but Oldenbusch kept his eyes fixed on the street.

  “It’s not that simple, Werner. They have weapons. Machine guns, hand grenades, pistols, knives. The boy, their leader, he’s around sixteen. He still believes Nazi propaganda, gives himself medals, believes in secret weapons, and thinks a new war is coming. And then there’s the girl, Fanny. I’m not certain I can trust her. She has a baby, from a Russian, she says. I think she’s acting dumber than she really is.”

  Oldenbusch slowly turned onto Königsbrücker Strasse, since there were potholes everywhere and tires were in short supply. “So is there reason to suspect these children had anything to do with the attack?”

  Heller stretched his legs as far as he could. His ankle ached from the long march over rough terrain.

  “We can only speculate. Remember that spelling mistake on the leaflet? ‘Bolshevissm’—with two s’s. Those kids have been living in that forest hiding place ever since the war ended. They’ve had no schooling for a long time, if ever. The two adolescents spoke with poor grammar. Mind you, I don’t know how they could have produced the leaflets. I didn’t spot a mimeograph in their miserable camp. They still could have had something to do with those dead Soviet officers. Like I said, I’m just speculating. But I’m pretty sure Fanny knew Swoboda.”

  “So what you’re saying is, you want to keep quiet about this for now?”

  “Just for now. I need to find out more. I’ll go back tomorrow and try to gain her trust. I’m bringing them food. I’m just not sure where I’m going to get it. And I want to go see Kasrashvili too. And Frau Schlüter has to be questioned. And Gutmann.” Heller rubbed his chin. “I have no idea what to tackle first.”

  Oldenbusch carefully steered the car around the next pothole. He seemed unruffled. “I suggest taking one step at a time. Frau Schlüter’s sitting in the prison at Münchner Platz. Gutmann’s in custody at police HQ. Kassner sent over a report, and I have it here for you.” He leaned forward and tapped on a folder on the dashboard.

  Heller opened it and scanned Dr. Kassner’s findings. In the case of Berinov, there were no detectable sexual diseases, though Kassner stressed that syphilis was quite difficult to detect in its early stages. In the case of Cherin, there was a suspicion that he’d been infected with gonorrhea, but this couldn’t be proven decisively given the condition of the corpse. They still needed to take swabs. Attached were the final report on Swoboda’s head and the autopsy report on the dead girl. In her case, the sole cause of death was smoke inhalation.

  Heller read in silence, holding pages up to the window and using the light of streetlamps rushing by. He wondered if there was anything to the gossip about another victim, by Swoboda’s hand; if there truly was another girl lying buried somewhere. Gutmann knew something, that much was clear. No doubt he was a tough adversary and wouldn’t give in anytime soon. Heller really needed to question him again today.

  He put the folder in his lap. He was exhausted and missed Karin and Klaus. He needed to speak to his wife, to unload some of this burden. Karin would understand him. Werner didn’t have any children, and he hadn’t witnessed all the misery Heller had seen in the woods. It wasn’t hard for Oldenbusch to forget the matter. But Heller couldn’t get the images of those neglected children out of his head. It was like something was pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe.

  “About those severed hands,” Oldenbusch said, continuing where he left off. “The registrar’s office promptly replied about the wedding ring. On August 16, 1931, Rosmarie, maiden name Schuster, married an Armin Weiler, who worked as the head of the accounting department in a state-run food processing facility. But I’ll bet you can’t guess the rest, boss.”

  “Werner!” Heller groaned, exasperated.

  “Armin Weiler used to be the accountant at Schlüter Printing.”

  Gutmann had to wait in the interrogation room quite a long time, and he received Heller with a pitiful smile. The guards had removed his handcuffs, and he was leaning back in the chair, looking relaxed, his legs stretched out under the table. Heller took off his overcoat, draped it over the chair back, and sat across from Gutmann. Oldenbusch sat next to him. He was under Heller’s strict orders not to say anything, even if Gutmann addressed him. Heller stared at Gutmann, giving him the first word. “You really are making a mistake here,” Gutmann said. “I warned you before. Taking me into custody might seem sensible, but there are many who won’t like it. This isn’t about me, no matter what you’re hoping to gain from this. I’m not worried about me. This is about you and your future. You’re deciding at this very moment. You understand?”

  Heller expected no less. He kept cool. “The girl found this morning in the building behind your establishment . . . Who was she, where did she come from?”

  “I didn’t kill her. She suffocated in the fire. And I nearly suffocated too. I just wanted her out of my building. Listen, I wanted to spare you all this trouble. Because I knew you’d pursue the matter and only end up falling on deaf ears, especially among the Russians. I intended to keep the girl up there temporarily and get rid of her later that night. I was doing it for you, Comrade Heller. But these kids, I’m telling you, they’re a plague. Always sniffing around. Anyway, I didn’t kill her.”

  Oldenbusch was taking down every word.

  “If you’d be kind enough to answer my questions,” Heller said, not attempting to hide his weariness.

  “I don’t know who she was. She had a Silesian accent and called herself Eva. She was the one who came to me. I gave her food and shelter, but she knew she had to do things for it. Nothing comes for free.”

  “How old was she, is what I’d like to know.”

  “I don’t know. She said eighteen.”

  Gutmann gave Heller a brazen look. Heller showed no expression.

  “How long had she been there with you?”

  “A few months.”

  “What about the other girls? Do you replace them?”

  “There’s a new one every now and then.”

  “When did this all start? Was it your idea or someone else’s?”

  “There have always been women working there. Just walking around the neighborhood like they do, got scooped up by the Russians. They also got raped or the vice squad locked them up. This was still back in ’45. I started organizing the whole thing after that. I gave them rooms; they paid me rent. I had nothing to do with their business. And when one goes, another comes. In the beginning I always asked their age. They all said eighteen. Most didn’t have any papers on them, so how was I supposed to know? I had to trust them. That’s just the way this works. I couldn’t care less what they do upstairs.”

  “How do the girls know to come to you?”

  “Word gets around. The SMAD knows about it. This is exactly what I’m trying to tell you, Herr Heller. They don’t want scandal. After the attack, people were telling me I should be worried about the public finding out. But it will never reach the public. Why do you think the Soviets got there before the police?”

  Heller leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, staring. Gutmann truly believed he was safe. “More has reached the public than you think, Herr Gutmann. People in the neighborhood are neither deaf nor blind. Major Vadim Berinov and Colonel Vasili Cherin—were they johns?”

  “Don’t know, maybe. Like I said, not for me to worry about.”

  “We know both of them were regulars at your place, thanks to your notebook.” This was a lie, but Heller figured it was worth a try.

  “Even if that’s true, you trying to claim I bumped off Soviets? I was in my bar the whole time—I’ve got witnesses!”

  “Would you rather name your johns as witnesses or maybe your underage prostitutes?” Heller kept looking at Gutmann, his face blank.

  “There are other witnesses. I have a secure alibi.”

  “For which days?”

  “For every day! Plus, I don’t believe you. You don’t know a thing. You’re groping around in th
e dark. You don’t even have an actual reason to keep me in custody, and I still haven’t had a chance to talk to a lawyer.” Gutmann was growing indignant. Did he truly believe that all he had to do was utter a few threats and they’d just leave him alone?

  Heller kept at it. “We also know you obtained illegal medicine and pharmaceutical goods from a Captain Lado Kasrashvili.”

  Gutmann shrugged, maintaining his tight-lipped expression. “No idea who that is.”

  “Does the name Armin Weiler mean anything to you?”

  “Yeah, I know him. I get potatoes and flour from his business. He sometimes has a drink at my bar.” Gutmann added a sideways grin.

  “We know you were quarreling with your caretaker, Franz Swoboda.”

  Gutmann flew into a rage. “Yeah, so what? That against the law? You can’t argue anymore? Got no reason to keep me here!”

  “Swoboda’s dead, Herr Gutmann. We found his severed head. Quite brutal. Based on witness statements, you’re under strong suspicion of murder.”

  “You’d just love that,” Gutmann hissed, but his expression revealed he was growing more uneasy. “Just who are these so-called witnesses?”

  “We can’t divulge that. But we have witnesses from the immediate vicinity as well as Soviet circles.”

  Gutmann released a disparaging laugh, yet he nervously tapped on the table. Then he leaned back, shook his head, pursed his lips, and crossed his arms.

  Heller wasn’t finished. He’d still saved a little ammunition.

  “In the report from the coroner who examined Swoboda’s head, there’s mention of a drug addiction. They found an elevated concentration of a sedative in Swoboda’s blood, probably hexobarbital, an injectable narcotic. In your office, we found a considerable amount of Evipan and various syringes. So it’s possible you sedated Swoboda with an injection, killed him, and cut off his head.”

  Heller went silent, to let his words sink in. He kept his gaze fixed on Gutmann. He was about to learn just how convincing his lie was. He couldn’t add any more just yet without risking his bluff getting called. Heller pressed his knee against Oldenbusch’s leg, having sensed he was growing nervous.

  “Serves him right,” Gutmann muttered, staring at the tabletop. His expression betrayed what was playing out inside him, a full spectrum of hate, rage, equanimity, doubt. Suddenly, he seemed to reach a decision. He leaned forward and repeatedly tapped his index finger on the table.

  “Very well. Serves him right. Franz was a tough bastard. He was with the SS in Serbia. I’m still not exactly sure how it happened, but he lost his hand in battle. Apparently got trapped after an explosion and had to saw it off with an entrenching tool. It’s true he was a bit of a lunatic. He kept things clean at the bar, sweeping and keeping organized. It worked out.”

  “Did he know about the girls?”

  “Sure. He’d gotten them heating for their place and brought them water.”

  “Did he abuse any of them?”

  Gutmann hesitated. “Could be, but they never said anything.”

  “Word is, he killed one of them.”

  “When?”

  Heller ignored that. “Is it true?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes they just take off, here one day, gone the next.”

  “How are they supposed to take off when they’re locked in? Like that girl who suffocated upstairs in your building. Can you explain that? Were you keeping them prisoner?”

  “It was for their own protection! So not just anyone could burst in on them. Listen to me, Heller. I was unconscious, I was wounded and confused, and I was scared of the Soviets. That’s why I didn’t say anything about her up there. I had no idea she’d croak.”

  Heller raised a hand. “Can you give us a list with the names of your guests?”

  “You still don’t get it. I’m not making any list—I might as well sign my own death warrant.”

  “But you had a list. Which you tried to burn.”

  “No . . . yes . . .” Gutmann shifted in his seat, waving his hands. “Jesus. All right. Franz, he’d picked a fight with one of them. It was like he’d made him into his own personal enemy.”

  “Who was it—Cherin?”

  “How should I know? Everyone called him Vasili. They used to drink together, before Franz became verbally abusive. Calling him a Russian pig, fucking Ivan, how he’d taken out the likes of him dozens of times, and all that crap. I think Cherin was doing some snooping on Franz. I also think Cherin had something going with one of them.”

  “Had something going? With one of the girls?”

  “Yeah, sometimes the johns do fall in love.”

  “So Cherin was one of the ones who’d go see the girls? And he was in love with one. Could she have been the one who killed Swoboda?”

  Gutmann raised his hands, distraught now. “I don’t know what went down. I wasn’t there, goddamn it!”

  “Cherin was snooping on Swoboda, you said.”

  Gutmann nodded, and his shoulders raised.

  “Swoboda killed him because of that?”

  “Could be.”

  “So then Berinov set out to find his friend?”

  “Vasili and Vadim were friends, yes. They mostly came in together. Maybe he sedated Swoboda and sawed off his head. That Georgian sold his stuff to everyone, so why not Berinov?”

  “Then Berinov goes running around the neighborhood with a backpack carrying Swoboda’s head in it? Why?”

  “How should I know?”

  Heller nodded. “The only question is—”

  “Is what? What’s the question?” Gutmann gave Heller an impatient stare.

  “Then who killed Berinov?”

  “How did you know that, boss, about the hexobarbital?” Oldenbusch asked. Thanks to an unexpected gas ration, he had offered to drive Heller home. They were now traveling up Bautzner Strasse, the Ford’s headlamps the only source of light.

  Heller sighed, too tired to contest the nickname. “They were already using Evipan in the First World War. I was sedated with it myself when I was wounded. When you receive it often, you get addicted, as you said. Withdrawal isn’t pleasant. It manifests as irritability, tremors, loss of motor skills and the ability to speak properly, and, in extreme cases, delirium tremens. That fits what little I’ve heard about Swoboda. Kassner’s report has nothing about it, though. I’m not sure if it would even be detectable in coagulated blood.”

  “You really grilled Gutmann good about it. So this Kasrashvili really does have a hand in things.”

  “He might just be selling. I want to see about visiting him tomorrow.”

  “Shouldn’t you inform the Soviets too?”

  “Werner, I can hardly think at this point. I need to go home and get some sleep. I’ll speak to Frau Schlüter first thing tomorrow. There must be a reason we found that doctor’s bag among her things. And what’s the connection between the Schlüters and this Weiler? Just that he had worked for them? That’s what I want to find out. We’ll see after that.”

  Heller rubbed his weary face. They slowly climbed the final stretch of street, listening with concern to the pinging engine.

  “Stop, Werner. I’ll get out here. Tomorrow morning at seven—”

  “I’ll pick you up, boss. Let’s say six?”

  Heller nodded, reaching for the door handle.

  “Wait a second.” Oldenbusch fished around in his overcoat pocket and pulled out a brown paper bag. Heller looked inside and discovered a few white pills.

  “You told me that your Frau Marquart was sick.”

  “Where did you get that? Not from Gutmann’s office?”

  “He was only going to profit off it.”

  “But, Werner, it’s not right. You can’t just—”

  “It’s also not right when someone dies because they can’t get any medicine, especially when it’s readily available.”

  February 9, 1947: Late Evening

  Karin breathed a sigh of relief when Heller finally got home. She rushed up to h
im from the kitchen. Though she could see his weariness and exhaustion, she couldn’t contain her frustration.

  “It’s so late again, Max. It can’t go on like this! We desperately need coal. You have to go to the coal office tomorrow. We have coupons, but they’re not doing us any good. Others stand in line for hours every day. But you’re never there. Because of work.” She added a disapproving stare.

  Heller opened his overcoat. He said nothing.

  Karin knew what that meant. “Max, we need to worry about our own lives too. No matter what else is happening.”

  Heller nodded, stroked Karin’s arm, and went over to Klaus, who was sitting at the kitchen table, picking out the leftover chaff from a little sack of grains. Heller set a hand on his, a fatherly gesture, yet also the sort of contact that he realized must seem odd to a grown man. But Klaus let Heller keep it there.

  “How are you two doing?” Heller asked.

  Klaus moved a little to the side, so Heller could sit next to him. “I had to register today. I also got food ration coupons and an employment card for now. I’ll get fed at the garrison. My training should start in a week. I’ll help Mother out till then. I was able to get a little lard, flour, and barley with your card. And I was in the backyard. If we sawed down that old cherry tree, we’d have wood for a month.”

  “But we’d have no cherries in the summer,” Heller countered. He didn’t want to imagine what Frau Marquart would say about this. She loved that tree more than anything.

  “We got an invitation,” Karin said and handed Heller a letter.

  Heller removed the letter from its already-opened envelope. The Soviet Military Administration was inviting them to a cultural evening. The invitation announced nonration dining, and there would be singing and piano music by Prokofiev and Debussy along with some speakers from the Cultural Association. The letter wasn’t signed, but Heller was sure Medvedev was behind the invitation. He took a look at the date. “That’s only the day after tomorrow.”

  “I don’t have anything to wear,” Karin muttered. She wasn’t being vain but simply stating the truth—neither of them had formal wear. Perhaps Heller could help himself to some of the late Herr Marquart’s clothes, even though most of his pants and shirts would be too small.